


Blue

by wheatleyandrews



Series: Greendreams [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Loneliness, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 10:29:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheatleyandrews/pseuds/wheatleyandrews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bran tumbled his fingers through those sandy curls before, it felt as though he was scratching through the surface of the enigma, just on the very edge of unlocking all of Jojen's secrets with each new teasing kiss in the black dead of nights long past.</p><p>Meera felt the tension grow thick enough to cut, and so she winked to her brother and smiled sweetly as he scooped up the young king into his arms and whisked him away through the dark, silent corridors.</p><p> "Good night," Bran whispered teasingly to her as they disappeared through the archway. She winked again in response and the liquor bubbled through Bran to force out a chuckle.</p><p>She sighed. "My boys, my wonderfully strange boys..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter focuses more on Bran and Meera to explore the dynamic of her feelings, but there's still plenty of Brojen! Hope you like! :D

Night always had a hard time taking hold of Winterfell in celebration. When golden torchlight shone through its ancient windows, as the infectious mirth of a grand king's feast bubbled out with it, the hours slipped away in horns of ale, in platters of roast sow, in laughter and love and loyalty. By now night had stolen the sun away, but the rosy cheeks of King Bran glistened with merriment just as warm, trailing out from beneath the tips of his longest brown bangs. From the head of the table at the front of the great hall, the king soaked in the joy of his bannermen as they celebrated the first sprouts of spring, music pouring from every corner and mixing with the booming laughter of strong, sinewed men and the tittering giggles of their full-figured lady wives, a few bulging with the weight of child. Though they indulged themselves, they dared not take a sip of wine too many, for they knew they their king and his council were keen to hold court with the noble lords and ladies fed and watered. 

The soft thud of metal on ivory meekly pulsed from the king's table as Bran called his hall to order, but the rosy-cheeked nobles turned to the weak sound and the music quickly softened to silence. From the side came the king's crier, a short, bald man whose voice far betrayed him. His tenor rang out through the hall with ease. "The court of Brandon of House Stark, Lord of the First Men and Crannogmen, King of Winter and Warrior of the North, is now in session." The crier dipped his head to the mahogany-haired king. "All hail his grace." The crier's arm extended to Bran's left, where the passive, sober Jojen sat with a perplexing half-smile. He was no stranger to the power of drink, but only once, at his ceremony of inheritance of Greywater Watch a year forgone, did the crannogman ever become truly soaking drunk. Ever since, Jojen swore off liquor for reasons unknown to even his clandestine royal bedwarmer, but Bran couldn't help but quench his own thirst with a slightly heavy hand, if only to affectionately annoy his lover. When Bran tumbled his fingers through those sandy curls before, it felt as though he was scratching through the surface of the enigma, just on the very edge of unlocking all of Jojen's secrets with each new teasing kiss in the black dead of nights long past -- but this one secret wouldn't flow from his lips. 

 _I'll get it out of him someday_ , the king thought absentmindedly, staring into Jojen's mass of soft, wavy curls. When his cutting green eyes made contact, and bounced between the crowd of nobles and his lover's rosy cheeks, Bran couldn't help but blush as he turned his head to the hall once more. _Had they noticed?_ Jojen chuckled softly.

"--Hand of the King, Lord of Greywater Watch and Warden of the Neck," the crier continued, as Bran's ears drifted back through the static to the great hall. Finally, the crier turned to the right of the weirwood throne, where sat the similarly sober queen. "All hail her grace Meera, Lady of the First Men and the Crannogmen, Queen of Winter and the Nurse of the North." With a fleeting roll of her brother's green eyes, she fished her hand into Bran's lap, and the king's slender fingers entwined with hers.

Bran cleared his throat before he spoke, feeling the pulse in Meera's thumb beat with more vigor as he breathed in. "My lords and ladies, it is our pleasure to extend our arms to celebrate the coming of spring. However, we are pleased to announce a great happiness to you all." He quickly turned to his lady wife, his bangs swinging across his forehead, and together they smirked, keeping the polite side of their smile to the crowd. "Ever since my beloved brother Rickon took up the grey cloak and swore the vows of the kingsguard," he said, nodding to his brother on the side of the hall, who quickly knelt as he husked away his helmet, "their has been no Prince of Winterfell, no heir to my throne." The youngest Stark had never expressed a love for rule and negotiation, only for adventure and excitement, and had sworn himself to the kingsguard on the day of Bran's coronation seven years prior, to save himself from the burden of the weirwood throne.

Bran, wrapping an arm around his tender wife, rose tentatively to his feet. "Having seen nearly thirty of her name days, and I only twenty-four of my own, we had begun to doubt if the gods should ever grace our castle with a new little prince or princess."

Meera smiled again, remembering only her prayer that Bran could ever overcome his folly for her slender, blonde brother long enough for her to come with child. In their most desperate time, however, it had finally taken the efforts of all three of them for Bran's seed to hide away inside her belly, hot and heavy from Jojen's quick strokes of hand and long, tantalizing licks. She chuckled to herself. "I am with child, gods be good," she said to the cheers of the nobles, patting the slightest bulge that proudly stuck from her slender stomach. "Either that, or I've grown as indulgent as our bannermen," she quipped, as an uproar of laughter tore through the hall.

"I should have a mind to name our prince Eddard, or Robb," Bran said, a snowy pallor flooding into his cheeks as the laughter died away in the hall, noble heads hanging heavy. "But our great country owes as much to another of my family." He looked to Meera, whose black curls bounced as she solemnly nodded. "I would never have mind to ask my bastard brother Jon, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, to abandon his post simply to feast, though it is my royal prerogative to name my baby, be it that my lady wife bear me a son, in his light."

"All hail Prince Jon, he to reign hereafter!" the squat crier called out. The bannermen whistled and applauded and hollered the prince's name. _Jon! Jon! Jon! Jon!_ The shutters rattled against the wall as the name pulsed out rhythmically through the golden-lit hall, pouring out from their plump, pink lips. 

The king raised his hand, and at once the rhythm melted into silence. The king turned to Jojen and nodded his head, and as the Hand stood, piercing green eyes locked with soft, smoky brown. There was a sharp, seductory glimmer in Jojen's eyes, that whispered teasingly _we can celebrate on our own_ as Jojen stared into him _._ Through his blush, Bran spoke. "My lord Hand, send a raven to Castle Black. Tell him that, if it please his lordship Commander, I name him a trueborn Stark." He turned to the crowd as Jojen nodded and swiftly foxed away to the rookery, the same gleam glistening from his emerald eyes. "For defending the realm from a new Long Night, the Lord Commander is owed a thousand thanks from every godly man, woman and child in this hall. It is the very least I can do to offer him the name of this father and brothers, as the same Stark valor that brought the North glory runs through his veins as well." He swallowed dryly before nodding to the crier.

The short man burst out powerfully, "Should any subject present have business for his grace, let him speak now." Bran sighed as he fell back into the caress of the weirwood throne. Court was always more tolerable with some wine or ale put away, and he had just enough of both to befuddle his senses but still spare his mind from growing dull. And so began the onslaught of the lesser lords' pleas, deigning to ask for a mason to spare, a grant to game in the woods, leave to call their banners to defend against Ironborn raids... slowly the rosy-cheeked lords emptied from the hall as they finished their grievances, Lords Tallhart and Glover setting off for their strongholds with a start and the others returning to their camps outside the Great Keep to rest until their departure in the morning.

With the final lords filing away with Rickon's bidding, and the crier taking his leave to return to his chambers, the great, airy hall rang hollowly as the Hand of the King returned. That same devilish gleam now manifested in a grin cutting across the blond's face.

"Now, with whom shall you retire tonight, my love?" Meera teased as Bran rose carefully to his feet, grasping Jojen's offered hand for support. "Do my feminine wiles no longer interest my lord husband?"

Jojen clicked his tongue to his teeth disapprovingly as Meera smothered the lovers in a soft, warm hug. "Oh, how I forget myself," she whispered with the tang of sarcasm dripping on her lips. "I should consider myself lucky for our little Jon, I suppose." She nestled her face in Bran's tawny locks, and an embarrassed whine escaped the king's lips.

Jojen's brow furrowed. "Not Jon, sweet sister," he said, clicking again as Meera fell away from the couple, Bran weakly clutching her brother as the late hour and the liquor tore at his coordination. 

"Osha, then," Bran said with a note of impatience. "Princess Osha." Jojen nodded as he stroked the king's soft mess of hair. Meera felt the tension grow thick enough to cut, and so she winked to her brother and smiled sweetly as he scooped up the young king into his arms and whisked him away through the dark, silent corridors.

"Good night," Bran whispered teasingly to her as they disappeared through the archway. She winked again in response and the liquor bubbled through Bran to force out a chuckle.

She sighed.

There she stood, all alone in the last few sprinkles of torchlight that dare burn against the cold drafts of the early spring night. With not a soul to watch she alighted in the white, hard weirdwood throne, still warm from her husband's fleeting touch. Absentmindedly she stroked her stomach, feeling the bulge of her girl inside her. _Osha_ , the thought, turning the wildling woman's name over in her mind, saddened by the memory of her demise at the hands of the Others. Jojen's greendreams never lied; a girl grew nurtured inside her. _My princess shall be as strong and as loving..._

She stared out through the hall, where the claws of night once more wrenched through the gaping windows to secure their grasp and drag the light away. It seemed as though the entire great keep at Greywater Watch could be swallowed by this dragon of a hall. _One day it will all be hers_...

And as she gracefully padded back to her bedchamber once all the torches of the hall burnt to the root, the doubts come rushing back to her. _Bound to die alone, no man to warm my bed_...

 But as she passed the door of her brother's small chamber, cracked haphazardly ajar, and heard the heavy whispers and soft moans of pleasure, she chuckled to herself. _My boys, my wonderfully strange boys._ Their happiness is all that truly mattered to her before, the only thing that put soft heat into her heart and soft color into her cheeks, but now she felt the warmth of the future grow in her cheeks and spread, tingling, out through her fingers. She stroked her belly again as she padded away. _You're going to have a wonderfully strange life, my beautiful daughter._


End file.
